


This Could Mean Danger

by a_fearsome_thing



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Gen, M/M, Shiro's Missing Year
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-21
Updated: 2017-05-21
Packaged: 2018-11-03 00:44:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,655
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10956177
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/a_fearsome_thing/pseuds/a_fearsome_thing
Summary: 5 times Ulaz met Shiro as a prisoner and 1 time he met him as the Black Paladin.or, the evolution of Ulaz's feelings regarding Prisoner 117-9875, Takashi Shirogane--the Black Paladin of Voltron





	This Could Mean Danger

**Author's Note:**

> Guys, this canoe went rowing by and I just really enjoyed it. Then it transformed into a viking ship and I hopped in my little boat to chase after it, but got fairly stuck in the gen waters and current in its wake. Which is to say, I wanted to write an Uliro ficlet but ended up with this instead. I got close, though.

The newest prisoners from Sector X9Y are brought to Ulaz after they have been interrogated to be assessed and placed. By the time he enters the room, all three have arrived and are restrained fully exposed on individual tables with fear in their eyes and muzzle-gags attached to their faces.

The druid standing above them gestures to each and indicates, “Prisoners 117-9874, 117-9875, and 117-9876,” before sweeping out of the room, transition of responsibility complete. Ulaz checks the tablets containing the most basic of information on them—found in sector X9Y, capable of basic reasoning, interrogated by the druids—before moving to begin his exam.

He won’t ask for their names.

He begins with the oldest looking one, noting with clinical detachment that the other two’s struggles increase as he approaches 117-9874. Ulaz performs a battery of maneuvers and tests, doing his best not to hurt the patient while judging strength and ability. He won’t get a good sense of their movement, since he is not stupid enough to loosen the restraints, but it typically doesn’t make much of a difference to their survival in the arena. He’s been instructed to keep the ones deemed “young and strong enough” and to send all others to the mines.

The slaves bound for the arenas don’t need to be able to win, after all. Just to avoid their opponents long enough to put up a good enough fight.

117-9874 is bound for the mines. Ulaz makes a note and moves on to the next patient, who tenses at his arrival.

This one is bigger than the others, of darker skin and hair, and watches him carefully as Ulaz approaches the table. Ulaz can already tell 117-9875 is bound for the arena. He submits to the exam warily, tense and watchful, showing impressive flexibility as he works to keep Ulaz in his sight at all times. Not wanting to be cruel, Ulaz makes sure to remain in positions easily visible without too much strain. He pauses beside the prisoner’s head and turns to the sentry guarding the door that must have transferred the prisoners here with the druid.

“Is there a purpose for the muzzles? I must examine the prisoner’s teeth.”

The sentry jerks its head in a negative and reports, “No. The Druid wished to silence their noise.”

Ulaz turns back, consciously ignoring the implications of that statement, and reaches out to unseal the gag from around the patient’s mouth.

117-9875 tosses a glance towards the sentry before whispering urgently, “Please, the others, are they okay?”

Ulaz stares, surprised despite himself. This is the question deemed important enough to ask and risk a beating for speaking without prompting? Ulaz glances between the three beings and notes that, yes, this one has more bruising than the others. He is either stubborn or a slow learner.

For his sake, Ulaz hopes that he is simply a slow learner. It will lead to less worry before an arena match and a quicker death. There is no benefit to placing place too many hopes for victory on any of his patients. Ulaz has learned that lesson best during his time here.

Either way, the bruises and the risk speak of loyalty and that is admirable.

“The older one is well. I have not yet examined the other,” Ulaz answers, voice low. His back is to the sentry and his hands are kept busy, turning the patient’s head to the side to run his fingers over the strange patterning of hair. The patient shudders at his touch but his eyes are grateful. Wisely, he does not say anything more and some of the tension eases out of his body.

If Ulaz allowed himself such leeway, he would find this patient intriguing. Fortunately, he does not.

He finishes the exam and hesitates before sealing the gag back over 117-9875’s mouth. He curses himself for showing such weakness.

The last patient, 117-9876, is the smallest but appears to be of a similar age to 117-9875. He glares as Ulaz approaches, but fear shines clear on his face. He tries to bite Ulaz’s fingers after he removes the gag from his mouth, but a sharp nail placed at the soft underside of his jaw stops any further attempts. Ulaz can sense the tension back in 117-9875 and 74 behind him.

He finishes his exam perfunctorily and determines that, despite differences in size and coloration, there is not much difference in physiology between any of the three.

117-9875 and 76 are noted as candidates for the arena, 74 for the mines.

Ulaz steps back from the table, surveying the three and finding 9875 watching him closely, a question in the furrow of his brows. Ulaz raises one of his own eyebrows, surprised again at the prisoner’s persistence, but nods. They are all three healthy enough, for now.

Turning away from the prisoners, Ulaz hands the tablet with all the information he has gathered and his recommendations to the sentry. He summons the guards from outside the door and cedes responsibility over to them, instructing them to dress the prisoners and remove them to a cell.

They are no longer Ulaz’s concern.

117-9876 survives his trip to the arena.

The Earthling—human, Ulaz believes they call themselves—is dragged back to the medical bay with instructions to heal him well enough that he can work or fight. The small, skinny, pale human survived his trip to the arena but was left wounded. He curls piteously on Ulaz’s examination table as blood seeps between the fingers gripping his left lower leg.

Ulaz never expected to see him again.

“Report,” he orders, addressing the sentry that brought the human to him. “What was his manner of injury?”

117-9876 shudders on the table at his voice and tries to curl further in on himself, whimpering. Ulaz’s heart twists in pity but his face remains stony as he smacks his hand heavily down on the table beside his new patient and orders, “Stop whining,” in a cold voice.

“Please,” he whispers, “I don’t understand what you’re saying. Please, just…Shiro!”

Ah. They must have taken back the translator after finishing with their interrogation and his exam, and the humans haven’t earned them back in the ring yet. The patient can’t understand a word Ulaz says.

He sighs. This will make treating him without force nearly impossible. No matter. It must be done.

“Sentry. Report,” he orders again, injecting annoyance that he received no response the first time into his tone.

“Prisoner 117-9876 was attacked by Prisoner 117-9875,” comes the mechanical, unfeeling report, “117-9875 obtained a weapon from the sentry leading the group to the arena and wounded 117-9876 by striking with a sword just below the knee. 117-9876 was deemed unsuitable for combat and taken here. 117-9875 was sent into the arena.”

Ulaz glances down at the patient, crying over his wounded leg, and distantly registers surprise. 117-9875 was the human who had risked a beating to ask after the other two. He would not have suspected such blood-lust from him. Ulaz is almost disappointed.

“Help me restrain this one,” he instructs the sentry, ignoring the way the human cries out as they force him flat on the table. Despite any pity or care he may feel for the tormented beings that come through his medical bay, Ulaz must not be suspected to believe they are anything more than fodder for the mines or the arena.

The Blade depends on his discretion. He is useless to them at best and a danger at worst if he is caught showing compassion.

So he ignores the pain-filled and frightened eyes staring up at him as the sentry pins his patient uncompromisingly to the table.

“Shiro! No, gah, he’s not supposed to fight!” the human continues to ramble, attempting to thrash but not strong enough to fight the firm grip of a Galra.

Ulaz spares him a curious glance. Shiro must be prisoner 117-9875. Why would he so furiously call for the one who attacked and injured him? Suppressing the desire to _know_ —it’s not relevant to the medical care nor pertinent to his overall mission—Ulaz gets to work, stripping down the human to get a look at the wound. It’s a clean slice, down to bone, and must be agonizingly painful.

A thought strikes Ulaz, causing the most minute hesitation before he continues to remove the blood and press the laceration closed. If he recalls correctly, the gladiator they were to face was one of Zarkon’s favorites, Myzax. It is likely that this wound saved the human’s life. He wonders if they knew that going in. He wonders if Shiro’s attack was more calculated than he originally thought.Myzax is an undefeated gladiator. Not having to face him is likely the only way 117-9876 could have survived.

It is equally unlikely that he will ever hear of 117-9875 again.

Ulaz seals the patient’s wound closed and decides that a dose of pain medication would not be overly suspicious in this case. It will keep the prisoner quiet, he can argue, and prevent him from resisting and injuring himself again.

Once more, Ulaz cleans his hands and turns away from the human. Perhaps he will see this one again, depending on what happens with the wound. He will honor 117-9875’s— _Shiro_ _’s—_ sacrifice by doing what he can to keep this human alive.

Haggar is coming.

Ulaz confirms reception of the shocking message with a dutiful, “Vrepit sa,” but continues to stare at the blank monitor even after the commander has signed off.

The rumors being whispered about in a hushed excitement among the guards are true, then. Against all odds, prisoner 117-9875 defeated Zarkon’s favorite gladiator and now his witch wishes to come see the being capable of such a feat. Ulaz is to have all the records they have collected on the humans prepared for her.

He doesn’t know what she expects to find. Ulaz certainly never thought such a thing would happen. He also didn’t see 117-9875 after the fight, which means he took down Myzax without being seriously wounded.

 _The new_ _Champion,_ the guards are calling him, most with real admiration in their voices.

 _Shiro,_ Ulaz remembers the little human calling him.

He starts paying closer attention to the discussion of what happened in the arena now that he knows it’s true and picks up the story in pieces. By the time he is hearing it, the tale has gone through multiple filters but for all the likelihood of exaggeration and inflated story-telling, what he hears is straightforward and plain. The victory is an astonishment enough that to embellish it takes away from the awe.

What Ulaz learns is that Shiro was thrown into the arena with an already bloodied sword. He had remained calm as he assessed the situation even as the crowd jeered and Myzax entered, shouting in the typical manner of the victors. The Earthling had kept his distance, dodging Myzax’s weaponized energy orb, leaping and flipping out of the way and hiding behind the pillars of the arena. He had been struck a number of times, rolling across the ground of the arena but never losing hold of his sword.

Then the fight took an unexpected turn as his attacks became strategic. He began attacking with purposing, avoiding blows more often than taking them, learning the weakness of Myzax’s weapon and drawing in close with a simple sword. Undefeated and arrogant, Myzax fell before what had been viewed as a lesser foe.

Slow learner, indeed.

Except now Shiro has drawn the attention of Zarkon’s witch, which never bodes well for whomever has fallen into her vision. And Ulaz will have to assist her.

He suppresses a shudder at the thought, closing his eyes to take a centering breath before preparing for her arrival. This will not prove to be pleasant, for either of them.

*~*~*~*~*

117-9875 is already standing restrained in Ulaz’s examination room with two Druids stationed at the door when the witch arrives. He is tense and looking suspiciously at all of them, but there is no flash of recognition on his face when his eyes sweep over Ulaz.

That is fine.

Haggar glides into the room, hunchbacked and terrifying as a Klignar. Despite not knowing anything about her, 117-9875 steps back at her approach before  he manages to catch himself. She hesitates, interest lighting her yellow eyes, and then closes the gap between them.

“The new _Champion_ ,” she rasps, inspecting him from under her hood. After his initial retreat, 117-9875 suppresses all further movement, frozen before her by sheer force of will.

Again, the human manages to impress Ulaz.

“Lady Haggar,” Ulaz says, stepping forward and sketching a small bow when she looks over at him. “I have the information that you requested, as well as the notes from the humans’ interrogations.” He indicates the tablets lying on a table near the wall.

Haggar waves a dismissive hand at him and begins to prowl around the uncomfortable specimen before her. The height difference is notable, but no one would mistake Haggar for anything but in command.

117-9875 is smart enough not to try to speak to her. Ulaz has learned too much about him to believe that it is fear that holds his tongue.

“Does he understand our questions?” Haggar asks, stopping behind 117-9875, who flinches and draws himself taut as a wire.

“He was injected with the translator chip this morning,” Ulaz reports. Haggar doesn’t acknowledge the response, but she also doesn’t ask him any more questions.

Instead she falls silent, remaining where she is outside of 117-9875’s vision and seemingly enjoying the way he fails to force himself to relax. There is the clear scent of fear in the air, although he does well enough keeping his face blank.

Ulaz pities him as much as he admires his fortitude.

Long minutes pass as the tension in the room ratchets ever upward before Haggar glides back around into the prisoner’s eye-line.

“You defeated my gladiator,” she says, voice bland and rasping. “Tell me, _Champion_ , do you come from a warrior planet?”

She knows what the answer will be. Rarely is she far from Zarkon’s side, so it is likely she was present when all three humans were first brought in. She watched and heard as they were ordered for interrogation. She knows of Shiro’s protests.

But she doesn’t ask the question because she wants information.

“Please, we don’t want to fight—” still we. He continues to try to protect the smaller human— “we come from a peaceful planet,” 117-9875 pleads, brows furrowed and protests futile.

“Ah,” cracks out of Haggar’s throat as she resumes her prowl, 21“the Alteans claimed to be a diplomatic and peaceful people, yet their fiercest warriors could slaughter hundreds. Their weapons destroyed planets.” She continues to circle him, predator stalking prey, and reaches up to drag one nail sharply along his cheek, pressing into a bruise. 117-9875 flinches. Ulaz remains blank and unmoving to the side.

“I have seen the recording of your fight, little Champion.” And that, too, gets a reaction. “You don’t fight like one from a ‘peaceful planet’.”

Finally, 117-9875 breaks, head whipping towards her and eyes wide. A weakness.

“I just wanted to survive!” he exclaims, and then masters himself, tone firming, “I didn’t kill him.” He looks away again, jaw clenching shut and eyes fixated across the room.

And here is the part of the story that Ulaz found most difficult to believe, what drew the most discussion among the Galra. This little human, of no superior hidden strength like the Alteans of old, defeated an undefeated gladiator who had been gifted an experimental weapon by Haggar herself and did not strike a killing blow. Myzax was down, defeated and unconscious, and Shiro ignored the calls for blood around him and threw down his sword.

It is only after at least three Galra soldiers had told him the same story that Ulaz believed it.

“You as well as killed him,” Haggar says, uncaring. “You humiliated him. A defeated champion is good for nothing. He is all but dead in the eyes of Emperor Zarkon.”

Ulaz notes how she does not include herself in that statement. She has future plans for Myzax.

“I didn’t kill him,” Shiro repeats, determined. It is important to him. He unfixes his eyes from the wall to boldly meet Haggar’s gaze and it’s clear what he means: _I didn_ _’t kill for your entertainment_. A challenge. _I won_ _’t_.

Haggar _smiles_ and ice runs down Ulaz’s spine.

“I will watch your battles with great interest, Champion,” she says, stepping back from him and waving a dismissive hand. “Return him to his cell.”

She turns away to inspect the tablets Ulaz collected for her and the two Druid guards shift forward to remove Shiro—117-9875 from the room.

Just before the doors close behind them, Ulaz catches sight of Haggar’s attention drifting over to follow them out.

“Great interest indeed,” she murmurs, and dread curls slowly in Ulaz’s gut.

**4.**

A prisoner survives the arena.

It’s not the first time it has ever happened and it would not be notable but for the fact that days later there’s another. Then another.

Soon, it is happening with frequency, and Ulaz doesn’t have to wonder too hard about the cause: Shiro still refuses to kill for their entertainment.

Ulaz begins to depend on the regularity of the visits, and his stomach clenches uncomfortably when they don’t happen. Even learning Shiro is still alive doesn’t quite ease all of the tension when it happens, and Ulaz doesn’t quite understand why. It’s puzzling.

Another side-effect of these visits is that Ulaz has been getting to know Shiro, even though the human does not often come through needing treatment.

Instead, he learns about him from non-fatal but often crippling wounds that mean the prisoners will never have to fight in the arena again. He sees hope alongside the pain and relief and fear in their eyes and marvels at the consistency of that expression in each one.

His patients never speak to him, because Ulaz is Galra and fear steals their voices, but he reads the story of their match against Shiro in their bruises and faces and scents. It tells him much, but Ulaz craves more.

Luckily, while his patients never forget that he is there, the other Galra do. Part of the reason Ulaz is such an effective spy is that often the medic’s existence is either forgotten to be in the room or they are immediately assumed they can be trusted and will keep a secret. Ulaz does not dissuade them of that idea, and it is true that their complaints never reach the Galra high command.

As a result, they speak freely in the medical bay, whether they are there for treatment or to guard the latest prisoner he is to treat. Ulaz listens to it all.

For years, he has heard complaints about superior officers, hushed whispers about the state of the Empire, rumors about an upcoming battle, gossip about the arena.

Now all they talk about is the Champion— _Shiro_.

He baffles them.

He is a brilliant fighter to watch—adaptable, proficient, and vicious with or without a weapon. He treats the arena itself as his tool, climbing and flipping and twisting like he can bend gravity to his whims.

He is relentless and his opponents struggle to predict where and how he will strike next. And yet, he refuses to strike a killing blow. Unfamiliarity with alien anatomy has made it so that sometimes Shiro cannot avoid it, but, the guards puzzle, he does not glory in the victory. Instead, it sends him to his knees in mourning.

Vicious skill is familiar to all Galra, but compassion is an alien concept. They could take Shiro’s sparing of lives as an assertion of his own power and a humiliation of the defeated, showing he does not fear their retribution—except he mourns death. Shiro’s actions clearly stem from a respect for life and not a desire for power.

It is taught throughout the Empire that this is a weakness, to be stamped out.

Shiro has never been defeated in the arena. He is not weak.

Does he tarnish his own glory, then? If it is Victory or Death, what happens to those gladiators, his opponents, who achieve neither?

Many of the Galra who watch Shiro are honestly beginning to question what they have been taught for their entire lives. Many others still jeer and say this is why Shiro is a _slave_ in the arena, submissive before the Galra. Only, he’s not submissive. He is defiant.

Shiro continues to fight, and his opponents continue to be spared, and the Galra continue to wonder at it all. And then there is a breakout.

While it is not the first, nor likely the last, it is the largest breakout Ulaz can remember.

He learns about it as the fury of the commander sweeps through the ship and leaves terror in its wake, but he doesn’t know how it happened. The ones who do know have been cowed into silence by threats of replacing the missing slaves in the arena. The ones who only have suspicions mutter dark rumors to each other where the commander can’t overhear.

The only thing anyone can confirm is that Shiro was involved because the commander decides to make an example of him.

She gathers together the whole crew, as well as a collection of a few prisoners from each cell group, and has them stand before a constructed dais in the center of the arena. The prisoners are penned in with sentries surrounding them while the crew members are allowed in the seats as rank befits. Ulaz is kept nearby the dais because his services will surely be needed.

Shiro is brought bound onto the dais and tied securely to a raised post in the center so that he cannot move. His face is projected above the four pillars of the arena. Blown up to such a size, the fear is plain in his wide eyes although he sets his jaw and does his best to hide it.

Ulaz’s heart clenches in his chest.

The commander ascends the stairs to the dais in dead silence. She strides forward to stand behind Shiro, hands clasped behind her back and posture imposing as she surveys those gathered. She doesn’t move for a long moment, letting the tension build before she steps closer to Shiro and reaches out to grip the tuft of his hair and pull his head back.

Furious and short of patience, Commander Caraz doesn’t mince her words.

“You are all aware of why we are here. Let this be a reminder to you of what happens to those who do not remember their place.”

She roughly releases Shiro’s head and reaches into her belt, putting a short distance between them. Quick as a flash, she rears back and snaps her laser-whip across Shiro’s back. He can’t stop his cry of pain, and Ulaz just barely suppresses a flinch.

It continues. Ulaz does his best to block it out, but the _snap, crack_ of the whip followed by Shiro’s progressively ragged cries of pain sinks into his bones. He feels heavy with it.

When it finally comes to an end, Ulaz focuses again on Shiro who is slumped heavily onto the post, blood running down his back and his clothing in shreds. There’s a smell of burning flesh in the air.

Commander Caraz puts her whip away and steps forward once more to lift Shiro’s head to the projection. His face is wet, eyes half-lidded and breathing shallow.

“And so you will remember in the future,” she snarls into Shiro’s ear as she presses in close. She draws a short dagger from a sheath at her side and carves it deep just below Shiro’s left eye.

He doesn’t react until she begins to drag it horizontally across his face. His eyes fly wide and he thrashes weakly, shouting his pain through destroyed vocal cords as it catches on the bridge of his nose and continues, a curtain of blood lowering across his face.

When Caraz pulls the dagger away and releases him, Shiro slumps again onto the post and retches, bringing up only bile.

Feeling detached, Ulaz wonders when they last allowed him to eat.

“Ulaz,” Caraz calls, and he stands at dutiful attention, “Make sure he is ready to fight in the next match. _Do not_ heal the facial wound. Let the scar serve as a message.” She turns to leave and then pauses, “A guard will be sent to you for when he is done. _Champion_ will be getting new accommodations after this stunt.”

“Vrepit sa,” Ulaz acknowledges. Caraz nods at him and turns to her audience.

“Return the other prisoners to their cells. Share what you witnessed here today, slaves. The rest of you, back to work. Dismissed.”

She sweeps off the dais and out of the arena, trailed more slowly by the rest of the Galra who whisper about what just happened.

Ulaz approaches Shiro, who does no more than twitch. With gentle hands, he releases Shiro’s restraints and catches him as he slumps boneless toward the ground. Ideally, he would use a stretcher to transport Shiro to the medical bay, but he’ll have to make do. The question is how. The laceration across the bridge of Shiro’s nose is bleeding freely, and Ulaz does not wish to allow it to run into his eyes, but he also does not want to put pressure on his back.

In the end, the desire to avoid exacerbating the scourge marks wins out. Ulaz does a brief assessment and determines that Shiro does not have any internal injuries that he will worsen and that his head and neck are fine, so he pulls the injured man over his shoulder and grips his legs so that he doesn’t slip.

Then Ulaz walks as quickly and smoothly to the medical bay as he can, hyper-aware of each hitch in Shiro’s breath, each drip of blood that lands on the back of his legs as he takes a step.

They can’t reach their destination fast enough, and it’s an eternity before Ulaz can carefully lie Shiro on his side on the examination table and step back to survey the damage.

It’s not good. He gently pulls away the shredded remains of Shiro’s uniform and wets a towel to wipe the blood off of his skin. Small mercies, it doesn’t appear that he was flayed down to the bone.

Remembering Shiro’s face, Ulaz examines it thoroughly, disturbed by the dark red coat of blood but relieved the wound missed three arteries in the area. He uses what treatment he can to stop the bleeding and repair the nasal cartilage. Caraz told him to leave it to scar but impaired breathing is dangerous for a gladiator.

Besides, she doesn’t need to know.

It takes an excruciatingly long time to delicately clean and treat Shiro’s back. When Shiro begins to whimper, Ulaz finds himself talking soothingly to him while he works. As he wipes the blood off Shiro’s face, his other hand drifts back to pet through the longer hair at his forehead.

He doesn’t even realize he’s doing it until Shiro leans into the touch. Ulaz whips his hand away and is careful not to do it again.

What feels like hours later, Ulaz finally applies the last of the medical strips to Shiro’s back. By morning, the wounds will be closed and only the deepest or overlapping ones should leave a scar. His facial wound gets an ointment that will keep out infection but won’t hasten the healing.

There’s only one last thing he can try to do for Shiro.

With a last glance, Ulaz leaves him to his quiet doze and goes to the door to the room, finding the guard Commander Caraz ordered there standing stiff and disturbed. The Galra salutes and Ulaz takes a chance.

“The prisoner will need to remain here for the night to monitor his healing,” he says.

The guard is discomfort grows visibly, “Commander Caraz wanted him place in solitary under 24 hour guard.”

Ulaz raises an unimpressed eyebrow, “She also wants him able to fight in the next match, which he cannot do unless I am sure he heals correctly. Is he not in solitary here? And you may remain on guard until the morning.”

With that, he turns back into the medical bay, adding as the guard sputters behind him, “You may tell Commander Caraz that the medic’s orders were for him to remain here.”

Then he shuts the door in his face.

In the time it takes Ulaz to return to him, Shiro has curled up on his side, eyes clenched in pain. Ulaz aches.

“Would you like something to help the pain?” he asks, gently. His voice causes Shiro to flinch, eyes flying wide to stare at Ulaz.

Ulaz waits. Shiro shakes his head, and Ulaz understands why although he wishes Shiro would allow him to take away some of the pain. But given the choice, Shiro chooses not to be drugged _and_ injured around an alien of the species keeping him prisoner.

Ulaz can respect that.

So instead he grabs a blanket and drapes it over Shiro before retreating to the bed furthest away from him that is still in his line of sight. It will hopefully allow Shiro to sleep. Ulaz isn’t too worried that Shiro will try to kill him while he sleeps, but he plans to only doze anyway.

The lights automatically dim more than they already were, and Ulaz’s night vision helps him to watch Shiro as he shifts, wincing more freely in the dark and always keeping one eye on Ulaz. Eventually he settles completely and falls into what must be an exhausted, if restless, slumber.

Ulaz remains awake for far longer than he expects, just watching Shiro sleep until he, too, drifts off.

Morning brings Commander Caraz bursting through the door, the frightened guard trailing behind her.

Ulaz is already up, standing behind a seated Shiro as he checks his back. Shiro tenses at her entry, but Ulaz merely gives her a bland stare.

“Commander,” he acknowledges. She scowls.

“I would reprimand you for disobeying direct orders to send Champion back to his cell, but this is more convenient now.” She smiles fiercely, cruelly. “Haggar has come. She and her druids have a personal interest in him, and they have requested his presence in the medical bay.”

Ulaz’s blood turns to ice. Shiro trembles under his hand.

“The witch wishes to experiment.”

**5.**

Haggar’s druids appear before she does, arriving in two bursts of smoke with quiet _bamf_ s. Ulaz twitches but otherwise fights not to react while Caraz and her guard look discomfited by their presence.

Shiro begins to tremble, little bursts of tremors that he clearly tries to suppress. Ulaz puts a hand on his shoulder which only serves to make him tense.

The druids remain silent, and one of them points at Shiro and then over to the table that has the built-in restraints at the wrists and ankles. The message is clear and, despite being still injured and dwarfed by the three Galra, Shiro fights as they manhandle him over to the other table. They each grab a limb as he thrashes, forcing him down and locking the manacles into place. He pulls futilely at each one a couple of times before giving up that avenue of escape, remaining tense and watchful but quiet for now.

It doesn’t take long before the door slides open to reveal Haggar herself, hunched and small but projecting an aura of malice that makes her seem huge. There’s another druid lurking in her shadow and holding a sizable box. Her eyes gleam yellow from beneath her hood.

“Champion,” she greets, ignoring the others in the room after a brief, assessing glance that finds them wanting. Her gaze fixates on Shiro and she looks…hungry.

“Haggar,” Caraz says, stepping forward with a respectful fist to her chest. Haggar waves her away, barely looking her her direction.

“You are not needed here for this,” she dismisses, and Caraz’s face twists into a complicated mix of disgruntled and relieved but she nods. Gesturing sharply to the guard, both of them exit the room, leaving Shiro and Ulaz alone with the witch and her druids.

The dread in Ulaz’s gut solidifies to a solid weight.

Haggar prowls forward, trailing a hand along Shiro’s arm until she’s standing near his head. She lets him wait a tick before she reaches out and runs a nail across his newest wound, grinning a sharp-toothed smile as he winces.

“You have been causing trouble, Champion,” she says. “I almost considered not giving you this gift. But I believe that everyone will come to appreciate it.” She lifts her hand from his face and circles him again, pausing at his side and tracing up his right arm again. “You will come to be our greatest weapon.”

With that ominous declaration, she turns, indicating for Ulaz to follow her to his workstation a short distance away where her druid has already set the box she arrived with.

“W-wait,” Shiro stutters, finding his voice as they walk away, “what are you going to do to me?!”

Haggar ignores him and his resumed struggles to get free. Ulaz turns his back more fully to the table so that he cannot see the panic overtaking Shiro’s features or witness his increasingly desperate bid for freedom.

“What instruments do you require?” Ulaz asks. He has been asked to do many reprehensible acts for the Empire in order to fulfill his greater duty to the Blade, but rarely is it so difficult to force the subservient words and distance his emotions.

Haggar opens her box and reveals what is inside. Ulaz’s heart stutters in his chest and he can’t stop the widening of his eyes, nor the gasp he lets out. Haggar smiles sharply.

Inside is a gleaming silver arm made up of interlocking panels with flexible black material at the joints. It will take some assembly to put it all together properly, but it is clearly not meant to slip on over Shiro’s existing limb.

“A saw,” Hagar answers, confirming Ulaz’s dark prediction. She pauses, considering, “Perhaps a gag.”

Ulaz starts, “A gag?” She can’t mean to keep Shiro conscious for the procedure?

Haggar nods, “He will need to be awake for the attachment process, and it would defeat my purpose were he to bite through his tongue.”

Ulaz’s mouth goes dry and he nods, turning to retrieve the supplies Haggar has requested. He takes a moment to wish that Shiro had accepted his repeated offer of pain medication this morning before pushing it away as a frivolous and distracting desire.

He places the saw on the table beside Haggar and takes the gag over to Shiro, every step feeling heavier than the last. There is dread in Shiro’s eyes as Ulaz approaches, but even worse is the resignation lurking behind it, all his focus on the gag. Ulaz can’t stand to meet his eyes but forces himself to, anyway.

Whatever resignation Ulaz sees in him feels does not prevent Shiro from fighting back. He refuses to open his mouth so that Ulaz can properly affix the gag, yanking his head away and forcing Ulaz to accidentally scratch him down the length of his jaw as he struggles to hold Shiro in place.

“Problem?” Haggar asks, voice as dry as the desert moon of Almar.

“No,” Ulaz says, putting pressure on either side of Shiro’s jaw, right where he can feel the hinge-joint of the bone. Shiro tries to resist but eventually Ulaz gets his mouth open and the gag in.

Shiro’s eyes are now narrowed into a glare, which for some reason is nearly as difficult to bear as the fear and resignation of before. He meets the glare steadily, however. He deserves it.

A druid is suddenly at his side, and they cock their masked head at him. Ulaz does his best not to project the perceived judgment and scrutiny he fears on that blank canvas—unless they speak, it is best to be aware and wary but assume nothing. That way lies madness.

Silently, always silently, the druid attaches another restraint to the table, this one just above Shiro’s elbow and now Ulaz knows how much of his arm they are taking. Ulaz absorbs the revelation, and then Haggar is there with the disassembled arm and the saw.

Shiro panics.

He screams around the gag, the word easily identifiable as “no” and writhes within the confines of his bondage, trying to throw himself away from Haggar, who tsks. Tears spill down his cheeks and he keeps up a repetitive muffled utterance, shaking his head even as Haggar turns to Ulaz and says, “Quiet him.”

Ulaz nods, incapable of speech with his heart in his throat. Woodenly, he retrieves a mild sedative, loading it into the injector and returning to Shiro. He presses the injector into place against Shiro’s arm, and Shiro’s gaze flies over to him, eyes wide and wild and glistening. They stab through him with their expression until Ulaz pushes down on the plunger and he watches as they go out of focus, tension draining from Shiro’s form until he is limp on the table.

The wrongness of it is striking.

Disturbed, Ulaz returns to Haggar’s side and schools his face into an expressionless mask, accepting the saw she hands to him. A druid appears beside him, and she hands them the arm, moving to stand near Shiro’s head and placing a hand on Shiro’s forehead, fingers tangled in his bangs. Shiro twitches and he closes his eyes, drifting, until she gives a sharp tug and drags him back.

Haggar looks back at Ulaz and the druid beside him and says, “Begin.”

The remaining druids in the room form a half-circle behind her, and the hands of the one beside Ulaz begin to crackle with energy.

Ulaz activates the saw. Despite the sedation, Shiro tenses.

The druid lowers their crackling hand to Shiro’s elbow, the black lightning that sparks from their fingers sinking into Shiro’s arm.

There’s a beat, then two. And then Shiro starts screaming. The muscles in his right forearm go rigid, fingers splaying and twitching and slowly turning blue.

“And now the removal,” Haggar says. The druid doesn’t remove their hand, so Ulaz brings the saw down below Shiro’s elbow.

He goes quickly and doesn’t hesitate, shearing through flesh, muscle, and bone as easily as if Shiro were made of nilorac. The pitch of Shiro’s screams changes as Ulaz works, climbing higher until eventually they become soundless, his face contorted into a silent shriek of agony, head straining back against Haggar’s hand, tendons in his neck bulging out.

Ulaz isn’t sure Shiro breaths until his arm falls to the table with a dull _thunk_.

There is surprisingly little blood, and Ulaz understands now what the druid was doing.

Quick as a flash, the druid moves as soon as Shiro’s forearm falls away, sweeping it carelessly off the table and bringing the metal arm to bear. It crackles with energy as the druid moves it into position, pressing it against the stump of Shiro’s arm. Shiro’s eyelids flutter, gaze roaming wildly beneath them and focusing on nothing.

Ulaz steps back out of the way, stooping down to scoop up Shiro’s forearm and bring it over to his work bench. Haggar might want to keep it. For what, Ulaz doesn’t want to contemplate the possibilities.

Behind him, Shiro begins to scream again.

Ulaz turns back to the table. He sees Shiro, eyes wide, pupils blown, mouth agape. He sees Haggar, eyes glowing a brighter yellow, face tilted towards the ceiling and power creating an aura around her. Her robe flutters and the aura around the hand on Shiro’s forehead pulses with power.

He doesn’t see the connection point between Shiro’s arm and the metal attachment, wrapped as it is by the druid’s hands and wreathed in black lightning.

As Ulaz watches, the metal hand begins to twitch, opening and closing its fingers before clenching them into a fist. Slowly, it begins to light up a steady  purple. The druid pulls its hands away, reaching for the other parts of the arm, but Haggar remains where she is, holding steady and entirely nonreactive to Shiro’s pain.

Shiro’s screams finally begin to die down, eyelids falling to half-lidded as the druid begins to assemble the rest of Shiro’s new arm, sliding all the pieces into place and using magic to weld them together.

Through it all, Shiro’s new forearm keeps up its glow and Ulaz watches, stunned, as the restraint around the wrist begins to melt away. Suddenly free of the metal holding it down, Shiro’s arm snaps free and Shiro stares at it in disbelief.

Then he acts.

He is still tied to the table at his other wrist and ankles, but the one around his elbow was released to give access to the druid for assembly and he’s melted the one at his wrist. One arm is all Shiro needs to be dangerous, especially if that arm is a weapon.

What, exactly, was Haggar thinking?

Ulaz moves in to hold him down, but Haggar stops him with a quiet, “Wait,” even as she releases Shiro and steps back. Ulaz stares at her but does as she says and turns to watch, ready to defend himself.

Shiro straightens his new hand and jabs it out in a knife strike at the druid, but before he makes contact, a crackle of electricity and magic surrounds the arm, halting its movement and drawing yet another cry of pain from Shiro. The purple light fades and he pulls it in close to cradle to his chest, whimpering.

They made him a weapon and gave him a safety lock. Genius.

Ulaz tracks his gaze up from Shiro’s new arm to his face. It is scrunched up in pain and emotion and wet with sweat and tears. Ulaz notes with shock that the hair where Haggar’s hand had rested has gone stark white, like her transfer of Quintessence has drained the color from him. Shiro turns his face away from all of them, pressing it into his shoulder, and Ulaz’s heart clenches.

There’s a smell of sulfur that draws Ulaz’s attention around to where the druids are teleporting out one by one, leaving Haggar behind.  She is watching Shiro, expression hard.

“He shall only fight opponents worthy of him now,” she says. “Take him to his new lodgings.”

She gives Shiro one last studying look before she sweeps out of the room, leaving Ulaz alone with him.

There is so much he wishes to say, but he cannot. He wishes to reach out and comfort Shiro, to place an arm on his shoulder, to ease his suffering.

Instead, he comms for Caraz and reports to her the success of Haggar’s surgery and her request for Shiro to return to a prison cell. Caraz acknowledges the message and informs him that a contingent of guards will be there shortly to escort the Champion out of the medical bay.

Ulaz closes communications and looks silently back to Shiro, who continues to ignore him. Something tells him that despite Shiro’s new permanent weapon, Ulaz is going to see a lot more of him.

He wishes the circumstances would be different. Shiro deserves more.

The guards arrive to bring him to his new cell, and Ulaz turns away so he does not have to watch them leave, expression hardening into determination.

He must update the Blade.

**+1**

A ship approaches the Xanthorium cluster and, like all the times before, Ulaz’s heart leaps in hope.

There’s no reason to believe it is truly him, but still Ulaz pulls up his viewscreen to watch the ship pass by and wonders if it is Shiro.

He has been left alone here to monitor the base, more or less abandoned after Ulaz compromised its location by giving its coordinates to Shiro. Kolivan could not understand why he took the risk, had called him an emotional fool and punished him by stationing him here, alone, until it was deemed safe enough for others to return.

Ulaz understands why Kolivan believes that—he has given his leader enough evidence in the past that he can be led by his emotions—but this time is different. Shiro is different.

So Ulaz will take the punishment and eventually Kolivan will forgive him. He allows himself a smile at the idea of his forgiveness being accompanied by admittance that Ulaz was right when Ulaz arrives at their headquarters with Shiro.

At present, Ulaz examines the ship hovering before the Xanthorium cluster and frowns.

Like all the times before, the ship is not of Earth origin. This time, however, it is a ship design that has not been seen in millennia—an Altean Castleship, and suddenly his hopes do not seem quite so foolish.

He cannot afford to be hasty, however, and Ulaz heads toward his small shuttle in order to investigate. Perhaps the rumors of Voltron’s return are correct.

Perhaps his gamble paid off.

It is easy enough to slip under the Castleship’s sensors undetected with such a small craft combined with Slav’s technology, and Ulaz pulls up beside the ship, docking to the side of it. He uses ancient schematics of the old Castleships to find an entrance. The sensors on the base showed 17 active sources of quintessence—4 too small to be a threat and 5 appeared dormant with only surface activation. If Ulaz’s suspicions are correct, those five should be the Lions of Voltron.

The seven others could be a challenge, but Ulaz has faith in his abilities to fend them off. It will be easiest if they are separated.

Plan in mind, Ulaz drops into the ship and runs, darting through the empty halls of the ship. An alarm sounds around him and he continues to sprint, simultaneously aware of his path back to his ship and the way to the control room. Hopefully, the Castle’s occupants will decide to split up to search him out.

A voice sounds from behind him and Ulaz turns to face the figure at the end of the hall, armored in blue and white and wielding a blaster.

“Hold it right there!” they shout, and Ulaz feels a momentary pang at the shape so similar to the other Earthlings—humans—he has known before he leaps into action. He runs down the hall toward the sniper, dodging from side to side as they begin to fire, twisting and flipping to avoid the blaster fire. A voice sounds over the intercom system of the Castle, but Ulaz ignores it, diving forward into a roll once he’s close enough and coming up to his feet inside their guard, knocking the gun up towards the ceiling and spinning back out of arm’s reach.

The sharpshooter recovers admirably, turning with the push and bringing their gun to bear quickly. Ulaz dodges each blast and turns to run.

They are not who he is looking for.

The voice over the intercom issues a warning that he is approaching another of the ship’s occupants, a rather foolish mistake, and Ulaz dives into another roll to enter the next hallway, marking a smaller still-human looking armored figure, this time in green. He rises from his roll facing their direction and sprints directly at them, leaping over them as they duck. They fire some sort of grappling hook at him, so Ulaz twists and catches it, smirking as they shout, “I got him!”

He decides to bring them along.

The blue one comes running down the hall, and Ulaz takes off, dragging the green one along with him. Ulaz catches sight of yellow in his periphery as he passes another connecting hallway, but he doesn’t slow. Blaster fire sounds behind him, and the green one shouts in alarm and anger.

Ulaz keeps going.

“It’s up to Keith now,” the voice says over the intercom, and Ulaz’s heart sinks slightly. Are there only four fighters aboard this ship? Who is piloting the fifth Lion? Is Shiro not here among these warriors who look so much like humans of Earth?

A red and white figure wielding a sword crosses paths with him as Ulaz turns down the next corridor, narrowly missing a collision, and Ulaz hears them take up the pursuit. They catch up to run beside him, swiping at him with their sword which Ulaz handily dodges before taking a different hallway.

Unexpectedly, the resistance of the green one picks up, slowing Ulaz down and yanking him back towards the two aliens. The red one leaps into the air, using the wall and their jetpack cleverly to give their strike more power. Ulaz is impressed, going down to one knee and finally pulling out his blade to block the blow, catching it behind his back. There’s a momentary lessening of pressure, as if something surprised the red one, and Ulaz takes the opportunity to disarm them, knocking their blade away down the hall.

They back up before rallying, coming at him with fists and Ulaz can now truly believe that these fighters are human. He uses the wire still in his hand to whip the little green one forward to strike the red one, knocking them both back down the hall.

Again, the red one recovers and runs at him, weaponless. Ulaz drops the green one’s weapon and meets them partway, hooking their arm with his and using the hold to spin them around and toss them the opposite way down the hall where he can hear the other two coming. The red one collides with them, knocking them all into a pile on the ground.

There’s a sudden presence behind him, taking Ulaz by surprise. One of them was able to sneak up on him. He turns slightly, able to see black-edged armor out of his periphery and then he whips around, stabbing down with his blade and stopping it just before it touches their helmet.

A glowing purple hand freezes below Ulaz’s chin, and his heart stops. He knows that hand. More than that, he knows that face.

Shiro’s eyes glare up at him from behind the clear casing of his helmet, refusing to back down even with a blade hovering in a killing position above his head. The moment hangs delicately around them, and neither Ulaz nor Shiro move.

Shiro is waiting for him to surrender.

Ulaz acquiesces, slowly lifting his blade away and standing down, and surprise filters across Shiro’s face. Ulaz takes a step away and pushes back his hood, disengaging his mask so that his features are revealed.

He meets Shiro’s eyes and tries not to hold his breath, but this moment means more to him than he expected. It is important. Shiro’s hand deactivates and he steps back, disbelieving, eyebrows inverted.

“Ulaz?” Shiro says, and that knocks the breath out of Ulaz even more than the Altean princess appearing beside them and forcing him into a wall. She shouts at him, but Ulaz’s attention is focused on Shiro. Shiro who rushes forward and defends him, who looks concerned for him.

“You’ve come,” Ulaz says. _You_ _’re here. You’re free. You are still fighting. You are everything I thought you were and more,_ Ulaz thinks, his heartbeat quickening. Shiro continues to surpass every expectation Ulaz comes up with for him. He is incredible.

The Altean continues to spit angrily and, never taking his eyes off of Shiro, Ulaz offers his wrists to them and submits to being their prisoner.

**Author's Note:**

> I tried for actual shipping, I really did. Instead I got development of pining and Ulaz gradually crushing on Shiro. There's a continuation in there somewhere where Ulaz lives and Shiro finds him in a different plane of existence after season 2, but I can't write it. All that chasing after the viking longboat and I end up with a story that can probably be more easily read as gen than crushing. Of course.
> 
> Also, the safety lock on the arm is the product of meta I saw ages ago on tumblr and have not been able to find since. I want to give due credit to them, but I cannot for the life of me remember who came up with the theory. Or a related fic I read. All-around fail on my part there. Ditto on the "hair turning white due to quintessence exposure" thing.
> 
> I hope you enjoyed it, though! I really liked writing it. Ulaz is so hard to write, because he's so emotional but so contained. I want to explore his voice more later, but I hope this wasn't too bad. I like him a lot. I want to write him not having to suppress his thoughts and emotions for the sake of the mission--from Kolivan's description of him, I feel like he's usually more opinionated. I also _really_ wanted to put in his reports to the Blade, but couldn't quite make it fit naturally. Maybe that's for another time. 
> 
> Thank you for reading! As always, comments and kudos are appreciated, and any yelling, questions, constructive criticisms, random thoughts can be directed to my tumblr, thehouseofthebrave! I don't bite and I love to talk theories. (Disclaimer: I know Ulaz was a terrible first responder, really. Should check for arterial bleeds first, there, friend.)


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